


Believe

by soniagiris



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Christmas Eve, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Light Hurt/Comfort, Nostalgia, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Spoilers, Swearing, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 16:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11627229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soniagiris/pseuds/soniagiris
Summary: A year has passed, and Phantom Thieves find themselveslongingfor what they were.ENDGAME SPOILERS





	Believe

**Author's Note:**

> as you can see in the tags - this ain't betaed. my main betas don't know the Main Plot Twist, so i didn't want to spoil 'em and just went with the flow B)

Out of the corner of his eye, Akira spots a sudden blast of blue light, and he instantly ducks to a fighting stance, one hand going to his belt, another to his face, but- there's nothing- where are his weapons, and his mask, and why can't he hear Mona or-

The decorational spotlight changes its color to indigo, then to purple, then red. Akira stares at it, incredulously, for a few more seconds, then, tension seeping away from his body, pulls on the hood of his jacket, vaguely aware of people giving him befuddled looks. His fingers itch for the familiar, well-worn handle of the knife he fought with in Metaverse.

"Get over it," he mutters to himself, then resumes his walk towards the convenience store. Thick snowflakes plop onto the ground, their plentitude obscuring his vision. Akira buries his nose in his woolen scarf as Mementos and Palaces gently blink in and out of his mind.

"Get over it," he repeats, scuffling his feet against the sidewalk.

Inside the shop, when he's browsing the shelves without any particular goal, he finds a pair of red gloves. They're cotton instead of silk, and unquestionably made for palms smaller than his, but Akira, once again, finds himself aching, just the slightest bit. He rubs his thumb and index finger together, re-finding the borders between soft skin and patches of fading scars, then goes to grab a can of cherry soda.

When he's drinking it behind the store, watching people gasp at multicolored lights flashing against the walls of the town, some of them daring to sing a line or two of a holiday song, Akira can't help but smile pensively.

Then pulls out his phone, opens the group chat. 'Been almost a year,' he types. Sends it. Feels somewhat less alone.

* * *

 

Ryuji doesn't really remember ever having this much dough on himself, but, eh, 's not like he expected not getting a paycheck for his hard goddamn work at the local kiddie swimming pool. He can't help but check his wallet every two minutes, to be sure this wad of crumpled bills is still there. It doesn't disappear, so that's good, he guesses. A part of him kind of snarks at wasting so much on a dumb whim. He thinks that's Akira's influence, 'cause that guy spent whatever he scrapped up from thievery at Palaces and his three part-time jobs on weaponry, medicines and occasional dinners.

Okay, the last one's justified, considering it started after Yusuke let it slip he hadn't had a warm meal for a week. So the point stands.

Huffing at this dumb-ass thought process, Ryuji tugs on his jacket and jumps out of the subway car, then runs up the stairs, two steps at a time. His leg doesn't hurt, so that's another plus. Maybe that's fate telling him he won't eff up. Or something. He ain't no believer - hell, he saw God die.

A brisk walk through the snowy back-alleys of Ikebukuro later, Ryuji pushes open the door to a tattoo parlor and nods at the shady guy behind the corner.

"G'evening," he mutters. The man gives him a bored look which Ryuji brushes off. "I wanna tat."

"D'ya have the cash, kid?" When Ryuji scowls at that, the dude rolls his beady eyes and says, "Guess you have. So, what are yer ideas?"

"A skull," Ryuji says plainly. "Like, a stylized one. Make it cool."

"What, you a pirate?" The tattooer chortles, doesn't notice how Ryuji's cocky expression falls a bit. Asshole.

For a moment, Ryuji could swear he heard Captain Kidd scoffing at that.

* * *

 

Sure, being a cat isn't that bad, Morgana muses to himself. He has a roof over his head and a fluffy, bundled up blanket under his butt, and whenever Akira skypes Lady Ann, he makes sure that Morgana can say hello to her. All things considered, it really could have gone worse.

Morgana thinks about Yaldabaoth's booming voice and borderline lethal attacks, and bristles his fur, then gets up and nervously starts licking his paws clean. When he can deem them fresh enough, he jumps off the windowsill where he stared at the falling snow and watched the passing people, then determinedly fumbles with a TV remote. It takes him a few tries, the buttons being too small for his abilities, but, finally, the screen flickers alive and Morgana coos at the cute anime girl smiling to the camera. Her confident voice and compassionate expression rather remind him of Lady Ann... Well... A bit. Morgana kneads the cushion he sprang on, then folds himself in a tight ball and watches the TV without much interest.

Huh. Morgana thinks he recognizes this show. He leafs through his memory, then pauses as an animatronic teddy bear appears on the screen, its voice comically high-pitched.

Morgana frowns, watching the robot wobble on its tiny feet, then bounces back to the worn carpet and tries to copy the bear's action. And falls flat on his face.

"Aw, man..." he sighs tiredly, then rests his front paws against the sofa and attempts to move sideways. It ends in a failure too.

Morgana gives up and goes back to his spot, then rests his chin on his outstretched legs. His eyes barely register what's happening in the show.

When Akira comes home, pink-faced and thoughtful, Morgana flicks his tail at him and goes back to sleep.

* * *

 

When Ann touches the prepared costume, her first thought is 'this isn't leather.' And the color is wrong, the shade of red too muted. It's all wrong. And maybe that realization is what strengthens her resolve.

The front zipper goes up to her throat, leaving the pale skin of her throat bared (unguarded). Ann swallows, hard, then dares a peek into the mirror. Her hammering heart slows down when she meets the eyes of herself, not Panther. Panther is gone, after all, masks and excitement, thefts and Carmen's husky hums, it belongs to the past. Just putting on a catsuit won't bring it back to life, Ann decides, then puts on her shoes and leaves the changing booth, heels click-click-clicking on the linoleum. Her agent gives her an appraising look, then adds a satisfied nod. Ann smiles awkwardly, clenching the muscles of her hands underneath the enclosed gloves.

"You look sooo perfect, Ann-chan," the older woman trills, lifting Ann's chin with her thin index finger. Her red nail bits into Ann's skin."Tempting yet innocent, like a revengeful goddess that shall bring the end to humanity's sins, but her forgiveness, whilst hard to earn, purges whoever you deem worthy to cast it upon."

Ann watches her own reflection in agent's glasses (they're just as big as Futaba's, but much gaudier), then mutters out absently,

"To be honest, I thought I'd look like that one Phantom Thief."

"Hm, really?" The woman takes a step back, rubbing her temple in thought. "Ah, yeah, there was a one in a similar suit, now that I think..."

She then abandons the topic, to Ann's relief (she was just like Ryuji, blabbering like an idiot!), and prattles on without a care. Ann looks at fairy lights decorating the room and closes her eyes in thought.

* * *

Never before was he free to choose what to do during Christmas. Ah, to be exact - he never was free at all until Akira came. Yusuke looks around his room and sighs.

What shall he do today? Tomorrow he's invited to Leblanc for a meal, but there's still an entire evening to fill. A specific idleness flows through him, urging him to take action, so Yusuke gets up from his bed and shrugs on his jacket, then takes the subway to Taito. He spends the drive making hasty gestural sketches of people he observes, then puts the sketchbook back in his bag and, brimming with energy, walks towards the Nakamise Market.

The winter twilight kisses sun goodnight, but the street is ablaze with colorful lights. Humming a song he heard on the radio, Yusuke slows down and carefully browses each stand's product range, marvels at fragrant teas and clothes made of materials that catch the ever-present vivid shine and reflect it.

He finds himself smiling, then whips out his phone and takes a candid photo of a particularly attractive mix of sencha and matcha. To Haru it flies. She doesn't reply right away, so she must be occupied. Yusuke bows politely to the elderly seller and takes a few steps back, phone still in hand as he captures the warm glow over the alley. And when he glances down, he spots a kitsune mask, presented on one of the displays.

For just a second, no more than that, Yusuke is under the impression he can sense its small weight on his face, and his memory supplies him with Goemon's sonorous voice making firm promises.

And the moment breaks when a nearby teen shouts something vulgar. Yusuke flashes a grin, then moves on, feeling just as strong as back in Metaverse.

* * *

A motorcycle passes her, the following blast of the wind whipping at her face and toying with the ends of her hair. Makoto gives the machine a scornful yet appreciative look, then grips the handlebar of her mountain bike and rides down the street, anticipation gnawing on her heart. In two weeks' time she'll be able to sit the written examination and obtain a driving license for a heavy motorcycle.

When she talked about it with sis, Sae seemed a bit perplexed about Makoto wanting to go straight to the last category instead of getting a license for an ordinary one right away, without having to wait for her eighteenth birthday, but, to Makoto herself, it made sense. But, then, sis wasn't the one to blast through fights, an engine purring transferring to her bones. And sis wasn't the one to watch her limps slowly vaporize, didn't-

Makoto turns sharply to a steep alley and bikes down, pressing onto the pedals with so much strength her muscles burn. She's alive. She's alive, dammit!

Snowflakes crash against her cold cheeks, and Makoto grins.

When she finally finds herself back in her neighborhood, she hops off the bike and, upon chaining it to a lamp post, walks towards her block, whisper-singing the English Christmas carol Ann taught her. Another gush of cold air sweeps over her, and Makoto shivers and pulls the cuffs of her sweater over her fingers, then pauses and raises her hands to her eye level.

It's almost like having her brass knuckles back on. Experimentally she clenches her fists, then shakes her head at such foolhardiness. Really, she should keep down that violent part of her. The boxing classes aren't purposeless, after all!

Makoto texts Sae (who's stuck in her office, well) and goes home.

She's still alive.

* * *

 There's stiffness in her spine, Futaba notes in irritation. Geez. It's been only four hours! Has she lost her endurance? She untangles herself, limb by limb, and, stretching her hands above her head as much as she can without feeling like her neck's about to come off, gets up to leave the room, her loyal smartphone already in hand. A few clicks, and boom! Ryuji's phone opens its chamber doors to her.

"Ew, that's disgusting," Futaba remarks gleefully upon seeing his collection of skull photos - sure, everyone got their gimmick, but ew! - then quickly edits a few of them until they're shaded pink, purple and indigo. Maybe that'll be enough of a hint-

Her foot misses the stair, and Futaba slips with an undignified shriek.

"Aw, fuck!" Her best companion clatters down the stairs, beeping woefully.

Futaba adjusts her glasses, then waits for Dad's (recently, she started thinking of Sojiro like that. It was... kinda pleasant) rant about her not being allowed to swear until she graduates, gets married and possibly becomes a prime minister. Then realizes he's out for groceries, having forgotten this one crucial (crucial, Futaba!) ingredient for his Christmas Curry he wanted to force into Yusuke tomorrow. Huh.

"Thanks, Inari," Futaba mutters and collects herself, then winces at the scrape on her knee.

The first-aid kit looks... kinda poor-equipped. Futaba thinks about Akira carrying around pocketfuls of potions, all shady-looking but bringing instant relief. Welp, guess she can't have that anymore.

With a cutesy Doraemon band-aid hiding her battle injury, Futaba looks out of the kitchen window and spots Dad's car nearing their house, then pulls on her coat and wobbles towards him. Her glasses fog over in the cold December evening, and chill air stings her lungs.

Futaba smiles to the outside world. Everything's getting okay.

* * *

 "-perfectly fine. Thank you for calling. Have an enjoyable time with your family, Honda-san. Goodbye."

Putting away the phone (she'll respond to that new message a bit later), Haru rubs her eye, beaming Thanks to her self-proclaimed mentor's sudden indisposition, now she has a free evening, and tomorrow she'll get the chance to meet with people of Leblanc. How joyful!

Haru plops down on her bed and palms for the TV remote, then, upon finding it, chooses the most action-filled movie she has saved just for such an occasion. True, there is comfort in watching sugary-sweet flicks about teenagers or royalties falling in love and enduring all obstacles the fate throws at them, but, ah.

Sometimes a girl is allowed the proclivity for something with guts, blood, lack of respect for gun safety, and a generic male protagonist with an uppercut and permanent smirk. Haru kicks the balls of her feet against the mattress, then turns off the subtitles and giggles at an overly dramatic shot of a blonde woman who'll probably end as the love interest. She looks a bit like Ann, but less... spirited.

A motorcycle buzzes down the street, its rumbling engine so loud Haru turns up the volume until her eardrums start stinging, a bit confused how Mako-chan's bike wasn't as raucous.

No more than ten minutes later, she's so engrossed in the cheap plot she barely pays any attention to what's happening outside. A small whoop of amazement escapes her when the protagonist, drawling out threats in his Texan accent, lobs a grenade into a speeding convertible. The explosion's boom is charmingly familiar, Haru notices with a fleeting grin. She can almost hear Milady's pleased hum after disposing of a Shadow in one shot.

Haru sips her spiced tea. The past is in the past.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n
> 
>   * remember: comments are like chocolate. they're nutritious for the author's soul. ;3c
>   * title comes from mumdford and sons' song titled, well, 'believe'. listen. i love this song. it has made me cry before (and music video's aesthetics are top notch)
>   * as you can see, this is a series of 300 words long drabbles. yep. 300 words each. i find it quite challenging to fit all the emotions and scenes into such a short form - but once i got bored and wrote about seven 100 words long drabbles in a span of night and that really improved my style (i suppose lol)
>   * don't tell me akira hasn't at least a small share of scars after the 'interrogation'. i mean, he did look fine, but a good foundation and perhaps a short trip to mementos/takemi aren't miraculous.
>   * i hc that the gang kind of. really takes care of yusuke and futaba, providing them food and safe spaces. and they repay this 'debt' whenever and however they can
>   * first person to guess which anime mona's watching gets a cookie.
>   * i love writing haru. i love it she's cute and bubbly and has an aesthetic going But Then she axes you and sticks a grenade in the wound.
>   * almost forgot. futaba changes ryuji's pics to be in the colors of bisexual flag. subtlety? i don't know her.
>   * yusuke's going to some market w/ traditional stuff. idk, i googled 'markets in tokyo' and that was like. the second result lmao
>   * overall, i found writing this fic a good exercise in finding that Inner Voice of p5 characters, but if i fucked up, be it characterization, grammar, style or anything, please do hit me up owo
> 



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